


These Hands Are Hard To Hold

by ernyx



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, F/F, F/M, I am deeply sorry for what I have done., Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Natasha needs a hug but will probably stab you if you try, One-Sided Attraction, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Relationships, during a time where Natasha simply wasn't sure who she was, past dub-con, why do I do these things to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 12:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4348988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ernyx/pseuds/ernyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past is haunting, the present is unbearable.<br/>There is nothing to do but  r u n.</p><p>[After all, the first thing they taught you was that emotions were your greatest enemy.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Hands Are Hard To Hold

**Author's Note:**

> alt title: From Flames To Blood [don't break don't break don't break]
> 
> warning for noncon, in case you didn't see it in the tags!

     You crash out of the window and into the arms of an unknown man. His name is **Ivan** , you learn, and he is in the military. He is not prepared to be a father, but somehow he refuses to give you up. You have a protector, someone who cares about you even though your mother is dead, and life goes on. You grow up for the first few years ensconced in his **love** , and it’s the only one you’ll know for many more years to come.

     Little girls need hobbies and he has no toys to provide, so he enrolls you  in ballet. You’re a natural—a splendid dancer, agile, graceful, a  _perfectionist_  and you refuse to be bullied by anyone. “So what if I'm a girl,” you say, “I will **fight** you.” When you get caught, you look terribly sorry—not because you _are_ , but because you may have brought shame upon Ivan and you could never do that. Ivan is your everything.

     You stay out of trouble—in _public_ —let the boys (who like to torment you on your way to class for the frilly little tutu and the skintight leotard and the simple fur coat over it that Ivan bought for you for your sixth birthday) run home to their mothers crying about the redhead girl with **teeth** and **claws**. (Their mothers scoff, say that it's humiliating that they'd be beat by a little girl, and that they should really do better. They couldn't if they tried.)

 _Someone notices.  
_                                               **That** is the  _first_  mistake.

* * *

 

     They tell him that they will keep her **safe** ( _lie_ ), that they will make her skills **blossom** ( _dubious_ ) and help her **fight** for the glory of the Soviet Empire ( _truth_ ) if she **wishes** ( _lie_ ), just like her foster father. They tell him that she is one of the **chosen** few ( _truth_ ) and that they have great **hopes** for her ( _dubious_ ). Besides, they say, they can give her some **stability** unlike a traveling military man ( _lie_ ).

    Ivan sighs and nods and gives his baby away.  
          “Be good, Natalia,” he says. You nod solemnly.

It is hell.  
   It is _hell_ and you’ve never even _believed_ in hell and yet there’s nothing else to call this.  
      It is jail cells and 28 orphan girls lost and in grief, their screams as they’re called down the hall.

                                              (You **_never_** want to go down the hall.)

     You sit in an empty room, staring blankly at a screen.  
_1 and 2 and 3 and 4. Now turn and plié and pirouette.  
                                   1 and 2 and 3 and 4. Now brisé volé and grand battement._

     You stand in an empty room, staring blankly at targets.  
_1, 2, 3. Turn, shoot, duck, shoot.  
                                   1, 2, 3. Step, parry, block, stab._

     You lay in an empty room, staring blankly at the ceiling.  
_Drip, drip, drip. The first, second, third. Grunts above you, pain spiking through.  
                                  Breathe, breathe, breathe. Hot semen gushing out inside you, hands lax in defeat._

You cannot fight them. You cannot speak of this to anyone.  
   They would eventually dispose of you, of course, but first they’d torture those you loved.  
      If you had naught to lose, they’d send you to the failed Wolf Ops to be devoured slowly and painfully.

                                    (Of course, if you are lucky enough,  
                                         you won’t even remember who you are  
                                                and everything that they’ve done to you.)

* * *

 

     It’s months before Ivan gets to visit. You look strong, your muscles building up from your training, from the (reluctantly) balanced diet provided in face of rationing for the sake of the few that might survive. If your gaze is a little unsettling, if your posture is a little stiff, he chalks it up to the military side of training. He, too, had once learned to stand straight as a board, shoulders square, chest out, posture ready to pull a gun. You were developing those skills too.

     You aren’t allowed to talk long, and he never gets to question your flinch at his arms around you.  
                                   Even if he had, it’s not like you would have been able to say.

 _Hell_ continues.

     Hours upon the stage, hours in the battlefield, hours of bloody toes, hours of bloody bodies.

     Hours on the cold table, full of this and that, tearing you open, forcing tears from your eyes.  
                                    This is training too, they say. Learn to withstand this.  
                                   Don’t you dare cry, or we’ll whip you for an hour more.  
                                                         They whip you anyway.

     The cycle _never_ ceases, your insides are left raw, and you learn to contain your cries. You learn to stay conscious through the pain. You learn to watch and hold perfectly still as they do biopsies on random body parts. You don’t flinch when they cut out your appendix without anesthesia. You don’t turn away when they fuck your wounds—you know they’ll be disinfected later just in case you’re one of their successes. You want to be one of their successes because it’s all you know.

                              Someday you won’t feel the pain. Someday you’ll be perfect.

>     “She’s not the most extraordinary,” they say behind closed doors. “Perhaps we’ll throw her away.”

* * *

     By chance, someone decides to play a game, luring you out from the fake normalcy of your life. Amora the Enchantress gives your young body strength, gives you power for a little while, promises you freedom.  _They never said they’d take Ivan if you got freedom on your own, did they? The compound was built to keep the victims in and the public out, but you could do it,_ the voice whispers to you.  _You’ll be able to do whatever you want to. With your training, you could have the whole world at your feet. Think of it._

                                                                          ( **lies** )

     But for the moment you are strong and determined and you fight. You claw your way out, pushing your limits, bringing down guards with your fists, with a brick, with whatever you can find. You make it as far as the outer wall and then she retracts her power.

     “You _promised_ ,” you cry out to the beautiful woman.  
     “I _lied_ ,” she replies, and then she’s gone.

     You collapse on the ground, exhausted.

>          “Perhaps she has potential after all,” they say in their office. “Upgrade her to Widow training.”

     In the meantime, you’re dragged back to that horrible room at the end of the hall. They rape you over and over for hours. They punish you for not staying awake. They tear you open to see how your muscles gained so much strength for the rebellious outburst and find nothing. You pass out again, and the guards all get a turn with your body one last time before you’re put away into your new life in the higher level recruits. They are the killers, and soon you’ll be a killer too.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments? Feedback? I'd love to hear it! Drop me a line either here or on my tumblr (@artificiallyimplantedmemories) !


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